c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-26)
Living next door to Miss Poindexter at Evergreen Estates was ironic, because we had little in common. Yet it also seemed to be appropriate in a sense, because though wholly dissimilar as individuals, both of us were outliers within the trailer community. Both of us had been targeted for holding views that did not conform with the prevailing paradigm. And both of us had come to the park largely by accident. My neighbor, after taking over her late grandmother’s home, during a period of financial woe. And myself, after a combative divorce and career collapse that left me with nowhere else to seek refuge.
Trina was a mashup of opinions all founded on the bedrock of fringe culture. She liked to fly a Palestinian banner in the front window of her pre-fab dwelling. But was an advocate for LGBT rights, something considered to be satanic in such parts of the world. Her musical tastes were for groups unfamiliar to anyone in the mainstream. An affront to fellow inhabitants of the development who all worshiped Pop Country performers. She had never held a job in the time we were situated, side-by-side. Instead, gaming, friendship scams, and online research kept her lifestyle funded. I rarely saw her outside at any point. But when we did interact, she always treated me with courtesy and respect. That alone was enough to make me endorse her presence. Otherwise, I had long been tagged as a bum and boozer by everyone else in our human grid.
With the arrival of New Year’s Eve, I noted that she must have invited friends from Cleveland to celebrate the event locally. A gaggle of Toyotas, Hondas, and other battery vehicles surrounded her home. Yet when midnight arrived, instead of the popping of champagne corks and festive tunes, I heard a chant echo from her side of the snow-covered yard.
“ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN!”
A live video stream on her computer offered coverage of the elected mayor of New York City, being sworn in, just after midnight. I could hear roars of approval from the crowd that attended. And, from dignitaries such as Senator Bernie Sanders, and Attorney General Letitia James. Their cheers blended with shouts of joy and zeal expressed in the narrow living space, that sat nearby. This ebullience buzzed through my walls, and could be heard even when I covered my ears.
Since there was no escape from the student party, I decided to grab a whiskey bottle, and sit outside for a brief interlude, despite the frosty temperatures.
At the far corner of our rustic boulevard, I could see that Aimes Hefti was standing alone, by the maintenance garage. He carried an AR-15 rifle, and also, a pistol hanging from his duty belt. On cue, with the passing of one year to the next, he began to fire at the starlit sky overhead.
All along our rural avenue, I heard another mantra being offered to mark the occasion.
“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”
This contrast between opposing camps struck me as oddly funny. An unexpected wrinkle on living at the isolated cluster of manufactured huts. Though I shivered in the cold, generous swigs of bourbon soon made me numb to the unfriendly environment. I actually began to sweat, while sitting on my wooden bench. My belly gurgled from the abuse, to the point that I wished for a sack of treats from Taco Bell. Though I knew my refrigerator was empty, I reckoned there were at least cans of ravioli in the kitchen cupboards. A shelf-stable feast that would suffice when I had gotten completely blitzed.
Before I could finish dulling my senses, a truck caravan rolled past the driveway, spreading diesel fumes and kicking up frozen debris. The whine of turbochargers made me cringe. One of the jacked-up rigs had a horn that played the melody of Dixie, a reference to redneck culture that was popular in our junkyard oasis. As I watched with disbelief, the parade circled our perimeter, and ran through the empty field behind my longbox, which had once been a playground. Then, every pickup turned in unison, with their tailgates facing backward. As I struggled to get up with both canes, a shower of winter white pummeled the residence of my neighbor.
There were hoots and jeers offered, to seal this defiant demonstration. Finally, as guests ran outside to check on their fleet of tiny, thrifty cars, more of the paved surface was churned up as an exclamation point. Middle fingers and baseball bats were raised. Four-letter words flew freely. Additionally, the recitation I had heard before, began again.
“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”
Trina Trelane had run outside so quickly that she was still dressed in a Pokemon T-shirt, and pajama pants with a Maruchan Ramen pattern. Her thick, black spectacles fogged in the chilly air. Her fuzzy slippers slid in the muck.
“You hillbilly assholes are a nuisance! Why don’t you go pick on someone else? We’re minding our own business over here! Can’t you guys do the same?”
Linn Speck was at the tail-end of their group, with his high-mileage, Japanese sedan. He waved his fist through the open window. His ruddy jowls quivered in the freezing gusts of Mother Nature’s wrath.
“Quit complaining, Poindexter! You should have known better than to bring a bunch of freaks out here to our township!”
Aimes parked in front of the crowded trailer, and lodged his own complaint.
“YA GAWDAMN, CREW-CUT BITCH! IT’S NO WONDER THOSE JAGOFFS FROM THE PPC FIGURED ON BUYING OUR PARK! Y’ALL PROBABLY HELPED ‘EM SET UP THE AGREEMENT! YER A TRAITOR AND A POTHEAD! YA WANNA SEE SOME HILLBILLY SHIT GO DOWN? I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN. I CAN DAMN SURE MAKE THAT HAPPEN!”
I had no particular affinity for the woman on my western flank, or her political and social leanings. And certainly not for the pierced and tattooed cohorts she had imported from the shore of Lake Erie. But her statement of fact was correct. They had been doing nothing out of line, in their private venue.
I raised one of my walking sticks, and gestured toward the street.
“It’s the New Year now, so we’re all having a good time. You and me and everyone. Don’t frig things up by getting righteous with these ladies. Let them have their fun. You do your thing, somewhere else. I’m doing mine, right here...”
Linn stopped at the end of my drive. He seemed puzzled and confused.
“You’re doing yours? What the heck is that, Link?”
I threw back my head, and bellowed into the night.
“I’M GETTING STONE-ASSED DRUNK!”
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